


None of us are Angels

by ehcanuck



Series: Hetalia One Shots [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori, Gen, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, One Shot, Passchendaele, Scheldt, Whump, World War I, World War II, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2011-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ehcanuck/pseuds/ehcanuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a rainy Remembrance day, both Canada and England take a look back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	None of us are Angels

There stands a hostel by a travelled way;  
Life is the road and Death the worthy host;  
Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say,  
"How have ye fared?" They answer him, the most,  
"This lodging place is other than we sought;  
We had intended farther, but the gloom  
Came on apace, and found us ere we thought:  
Yet will we lodge. Thou hast abundant room."

Within sit haggard men that speak no word,  
No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed;  
No voice of fellowship or strife is heard  
But silence of a multitude of dead.  
"Naught can I offer ye," quoth Death, "but rest!"  
And to his chamber leads each tired guest.

 _Mine Host_ by John McCrae

* * *

_Screams._

_Even now he could hear them, his limbs flailing._

_A shell had burst near by him and his men, breaking the duckboards and sending them all into the mire, condemning them to death._

_Drowning in the mud._

_The ground in Passchendaele had been turned into a soup of mud by the artillery on both sides; the bombardment had destroyed the drainage systems and it never seemed to stop raining creating an ocean of muck._

_He heard pleas of the man beside him, begging those who had remained on the intact duckboards or on the more solid mud to help him. No one could, if any tried they would be sucked under as well. Soon his cries tapered off just as Matthew himself took his last gulp of air when the suction and equipment pulled him under._

_As he was dragged down,, he brushed against a drowned horse and some supplies and tried to push off them, to get back to safety. Unlike his men, he would survive; after all he didn't need air and until the nation of Canada disappeared, neither would he. This would instead be a very painful number of hours as he 'swam' to more solid Earth._

_Eyes and mouth shut, he began to pull himself forward and hopefully upward, it was too difficult to tell now. Above he could still hear the muffled screech of shells, the explosions of the grenades, the groaning of the machinery and the cries of despair of his men._

_With one last effort, he managed to pull himself out, onto a partially submerged artillery gun. After couching up as much of the mud as he could, he flopped down onto his back to try catch his breath. He then groaned in horror and pain and **revulsion** as another air strike came roaring overhead, dropping its payload. But for a moment, as the shells hit, the difference between ground and sky disappeared as the mud and blood reached upward to paint the dark clouds._

_He did not want to imagine the pain Belgium was in as humans destroyed what once was green and good and let fire and gas consumed the rest. He was so tired and he hurt; not just in body but in soul as his children died around him._

_He wanted to go home, he didn't belong here. This was Europe's conflict not his and yet he was loyal to England so here he would would remain._

_Rolling slowly to his side, hissing slightly between clenched teeth for the pain that brought him, he scanned the battlefield once more. Seeing German forces coming towards him, he checked to see if his gun would fire before realizing of course it wouldn't, not only was it a shoddy Ross rifle but it had just spent the last few hours submerged in mud with him._

_Shrugging as though this didn't concern him, he leaped among those just arriving (they had foolishly thought him to be among the corpses) and began to swing the rifle as a club in the waist deep mud before tossing it to the side when it broke. He then drew his standard issue knife and bayonet and completely immersed himself into combat._

_Sooner or later he had found his way to his own forces repelling the Krauts, smiling grimly at India, New Zealand, Australia, Newfoundland and South Africa who were trapped in this hell with him. He ignored the stray bullet that slammed into his shoulder, blood pouring out of the new wound._

_He saw the same resignation in their eyes as they once charged out into hell..._

* * *

England stood in his kitchen, making himself some Orange Pekoe tea to help him sleep (and denying the little voice that told him that he wouldn't, same as every year)

As had become tradition over the decades, Canada was staying over at his house before going over to visit all of the grave sites on the eleventh, to honour his dead. Britain would go with him and on the way, they would inevitably run into the others wearing the poppy, on their way to pay their respects to their children.

It was remarkable, nearly a century had passed and those old wounds didn't seem to heal. Sipping his tea, he began to walk back to his study, noticing in passing how hard it was raining tonight, the heavens seeming also to cry before he heard it.

Muffled sobs nearly completely drowned out by the rain.

Turning around, he gently eased open the door to one of his many guest rooms and saw on the bed a twisting and turning Canada, his mouth open in a silent scream and tears pouring down his cheeks.

Oh dear.

He stood at the door, frozen before instincts he thought he had left behind in his colonization days came rushing in to overwhelm his senses. In swift sure strides he crossed the room before gently picking up his younger son and slipped under the blankets to hold him close.

As he rocked to him, Arthur hummed some old forgotten tune that probably only he could remember the words to and as he did so, Canada's frantic movements stilled and his eyes opened and made hazy contact with his own.

Canada hazily murmured “England” before his arms contracted around Arthur's middle and he fell back asleep, this time much deeper where no nightly terrors could reach him. Arthur moved to get up but he was firmly held down by those arms and after a moment or two, settled down and attempted to get comfortable. Looking into the younger man's sleeping face, he gently brushed sweaty hair away and he briefly became awash in memory.

* * *

_British high command jumped ahead to secure the Belgium port of Antwerp, what would be a crucial link in supply lines. They had failed to inform England of this. If they had, he would have hastened to point out that Antwerp was inland on the Scheldt river and the Scheldt was still under German control._

_Which was a mistake waiting to happen and one to be easily avoided._

_Together with some Poles and some British units, the Canadian 1_ _st_ _army was sent out with the task of clearing the Scheldt and opening the way into Antwerp. However the river with it's islands, canals, tributaries, peninsulas and pockets was a nightmare. They had to fight through flooded plains and waist deep mud._

_Knowing the potential disaster in the making, England went to bring Canada back, away from the front lines and those who might capture him. But he got there too late as on the 2_ _nd_ _of October, the army began its advance north and hit stiff fighting on the sixth causing the army to loose all track of one Matthew Williams. He had been in a panic until he had heard of the13_ _th_ _of October and Canada had been found._

_The division Canada had been with, the 5_ _th_ _Infantry Brigade's Black Watch, was virtually wiped out . The attack hadn't gone at all as planned, the Canadians had been made to attack over open, flooded land against driving rain, booby traps and land mines. Already the soldiers that heard about it had begun to call it “Black Friday”_

_x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x_

_When he heard, he had had to go out, he had to find him._

_He ran through the rows of the dead and past the soldiers shelters and tents, past the medical centre to a solitary figure sitting in the rain. Slowing to a walk, he came over to Canada, sitting away from the others lighting a cigarette. The others seemed afraid to be anywhere near him and as England got closer, he saw why. The lad's left arm was completely gone (never mind that it would regrow) and the blood was slowly pooling around his feet._

_Yet his eyes were dead and showed no pain._

“ _Lad...”_

_Canada's eyes flashed up then back to his matches which he struggled to light with one hand. England leaned over with his own match and lit it for him, earning a nod of thanks._  
 _“Why are you here England?” The boy said at last, breaking the silence._

“ _I'm here to bring you back, there is far too much danger here for one such as us. You could be captured or worse... Germany isn't in his right mind because of his boss. Only nations can kill nations and if you are captured that is a distinct policy, you need to survive...”_

_Matthew interrupted him in a monotone as he stubbed out what was left of his cigarette against the butt of his gun. “I've given up_ _trying to survive. None of you will see me as I am and people at home don't want me. I'm just looking for a suitable place to die.”_

_Arthur's hand flew on its own and he found himself on his feet, staring down at boy at his feet. “Don't you DARE give up on me lad. So what if Qwe-beck or whatever it's called wants independence or you were called America. What does that matter? Get up! It is not yet your time to die, lad. Don't see you? In a war that's fucking ideal! Don't give me that crap! We've all seen death boy, we've all lived through it, give up now and you'll just become another casualty. I have seen far too many young nations go that way boy and I refuse to let you join their ranks. Put on a stiff upper lip and stand back up and fight or so help me I'll feed you my scones for a month.”_

_The boy just back up at him through the curtain of rain with dead eyes and England felt his stomach drop when he realized that it was the wars he dragged him into that had done it. Picking the boy up (that shouldn't be so easy), he carried him over to his own tent and out of the rain and gave him a blanket._

_Canada just began to try and light another cigarette._

* * *

The boy had gotten better after that, as he began to see the good he was doing and the Netherlands had managed to talk him more out of his depression during the liberation of his lands. England would like to think that his own speech had played a part.

He hugged the sleeping Canadian closer, he hadn't been able to get the boy's face out of his mind after that day and after the war ended, he began to make regular visits to the lad's house. It was worth the air fare and his boss's anger seeing those pale violet eyes light up and the emptiness recede when they saw him on the doorstep.

Considering their history together, perhaps he shouldn't consider his long standing affection for the boy, after all his actions had done little more than hurt the lad. Taken him from France, made him fight his brother, denied him responsible government and more freedom, dragged him through bloody war after bloody war. But yet, here in the darkness of the room, it felt right.

Holding the boy in his arms and pulling him tighter felt right. 

Maybe Canada felt the same, after all his nightmare had stopped when he had come in. He leaned forward a planted a gentle kiss on his forehead, smoothing blonde hair as he did so before leaning back against the pillows.

By the time the storm ended, neither realized as they were both sound asleep.

* * *

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,  
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,  
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,  
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.  
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,  
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;  
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots  
Of tired, outstrpped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling  
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,  
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling  
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...  
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,  
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.  
In all my dreams before my helpless sight  
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace  
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,  
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,  
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,  
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood  
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs  
obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud  
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -  
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest  
To children ardent for some desperate glory,  
The old Lie: _Dulce et decorum est  
Pro patria mori_.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on Remembrance Day last year.
> 
> The first flashback is of Passchendaele (WW1) and the second is of the Scheldt (WW2).
> 
> The last two lines in Owen's poem are Latin and are part of an ancient saying that translates roughly as "It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country"
> 
> I have nothing else to add other then a thank you for those who have fought and died on behalf of my nation and that we still continue to honour your memories. I don't know which other countries have a Remembrance Day or when it is but I hope that if it was today, you also stopped and offered your thanks (or a prayer if you're religious) for those who have fought, both living and dead, over the centuries so that we can enjoy the life we have today.
> 
> Thank you.


End file.
